He sat down in the corner, knees to his chest. The silence that followed the skrbt was heavier than the darkness. He started to count his breaths to stay calm. One… two… three…
Leo’s first thought was cell phone . Dead. His second thought was panic button . He stabbed it. Nothing. He yelled. His voice didn't echo; it was swallowed by the thick, velvet-lined walls. He sat down in the corner, knees to his chest
Leo pressed himself against the rear wall, his mouth dry as ash. He didn't want to see what made a noise like that. A noise that wasn't metal, wasn't bone, but something in between. A noise that had no business existing in a world of verbs and nouns. One… two… three… Leo’s first thought was cell
And the last thing Leo heard, before the dark took him completely, was that sound again, coming from inside his own skull now. He stabbed it
The hatch lifted a quarter inch. A single, pale digit—too long, with a knuckle that bent sideways—curled around the edge.
It wasn't a screech. It wasn't a clang. It was skrbt —a short, dry, granular sound, like grinding peanut shells mixed with gravel and regret. The elevator jerked, stopped, and went dark.